


Soon, Like A Wave

by fulcrum_reader



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Battle of Endor, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, rated t for swearing lmao, with a bit of Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulcrum_reader/pseuds/fulcrum_reader
Summary: Garazeb had the goodness– the bottomless charity and forgiveness– to extend a pure gesture of utmost friendship from his dead culture to the man who had orchestrated its demise. And Kallus just kriffed it up, all because of his stupid infatuation with him.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 7
Kudos: 186





	Soon, Like A Wave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commanderpyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderpyre/gifts), [mudkipwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/gifts), [lovers_instead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovers_instead/gifts).



> "Soon, like a wave, empires will fall." - Empire Ants by Gorillaz
> 
> HAPPY #HOTKALLUS DAY! Thanks to @GENERALGRIEVOUS and @chocolatemudkip for looking over this for me. SPECIAL thanks to @lovers_instead for making me polish every sentence.

“ _Ghost_ to _Home One_. We copy, preparing to jump to hyperspace,” General Hera Syndulla chirps as she adjusts the dials on the dashpanel. Her voice is clear and strong, but there is an air of anxious unease among the occupants of the _Ghost_. Outside the viewport, the pinprick stars stretch into luminous bands, leaving the igneous surface of Sullust far behind. The clicks and whirrs of the beat-up, often-patched engines roar in Alexsandr Kallus’s ears. He reclines uncomfortably in one of the ship’s nose turret gunner seats to ride out the trip. 

There is no telling what they will find above Endor. Besides the _DS-2 Death Star_ , of course. Assuming General Solo– Kallus’s nose wrinkles in disdain at the very thought– and Commander Rex have de-powered the main shield generator, Kallus will take the _Phantom II_ down to the surface for ground support while the _Ghost_ and its crew aid the aerial fleet. There is no real reason for his transport to be aboard this particular ship, and he knows it. General Syndulla, in her infinite kindness, has specifically ordered him here. Getting the whole crew together. The whole remaining crew. One last time.

He opens his eyes as he hears a familiar tread approaching the turret. Garazeb. Of course, he is the only reason Kallus is even considered part of the crew. If not for Garazeb Orrelios, he would probably be on the second _Death Star_ right now. Or, more likely, he’d have perished with the first, another unmourned casualty of His Imperial Majesty’s glorious Empire. Stupid. It was truly stupid of him to never have realized–

The soft _whoosh_ of the door brings him back to the dark interior of the ship. Kallus spins his chair around. Zeb grunts in greeting and awkwardly stands in the doorway, his hunched shoulders creating an amusing picture. Kallus stands up and does not laugh. He knows the Lasat well enough to tell that he is genuinely discomfited. His purple ears twitch rapidly, brushing against the durasteel ceiling.

“I came to find you,” he says, blinking gracelessly.

“Worried about the mission?” Kallus asks, though he doubts that is the reason. Zeb has risen to every mission with courage and spirit, even since Kanan and Ezra. Especially since Kanan and Ezra. Not for the first time, Kallus wishes he could tell Zeb to let his guard down. He knows Garazeb trusts him– with his life, even– but still there persists a gap in their intimacy that he isn’t sure how to cross. Well, it would probably be easier if Kallus wasn’t embarrassingly, irrevocably in love with him.

“Nah,” Zeb replies. “I wanted to… talk.” 

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, only to immediately retract them as they hit the walls with a thump. To remedy this, he takes a step further into the cramped space. The rushing blue light of hyperspace flows over his broad frame. And muscles. Kallus swallows.

In slow motion, Zeb reaches out his hand and cradles Kallus’s jaw. His human heart hammers in his chest and blood rushes in his ears, almost drowning out their unison breathing. 

_Karabast, karabast, holy fucking shit_ , he thinks, _It’s actually happening_. For a brief, sickening moment, all of his hopes and dreams are angling towards his lips. But Zeb isn’t aiming for his mouth. Instead, he tilts his head at the last second and presses his cheek against the side of Kallus’s face. To Kallus’s delight and dismay, Zeb starts rubbing their faces together, their beards bristling pleasantly. He can feel Zeb’s breath on his ear, tickling his shaggy hair. It is an infinitely intimate moment, and yet–

“No,” he gasps, placing his hands on Zeb’s shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. His eyes ache, he’s nearly in tears. “I can’t. I don’t know what that gesture means in your culture, but–”

“I’m so sorry,” Zeb garbles, ears flattened in horror. “I should’ve known– I might’ve– your feelings are different.”

Kallus’s heart sinks. He remembers now: he’d seen Lasats exchange cheek touches as a friendly greeting. On Lasan. As Zeb backs away, he curses himself for his selfishness. Garazeb had the goodness– the bottomless charity and forgiveness– to extend a pure gesture of utmost friendship from his dead culture to the man who had orchestrated its demise. And Kallus just kriffed it up, all because of his stupid infatuation with him. 

He sinks back into the gunner seat as Zeb hurries down the hallway, banging into things and muttering. Judging it best not to make his way to his quarters– Bridger’s quarters– Zeb’s quarters, he settles into the rigid canvas upholstery and drifts off in the hyperspace night.

* * *

Kallus dives into the underbrush as the walker comes down. He’s been doing all he can to help the Ewok strike-squad, although he mostly just watches their inscrutable manoeuvres.

“ _Be reh gis!_ ” one of the diminutive warriors calls as several tons of durasteel crash to Endor. The noise is resounding, and on his belly in the bushes, Kallus can’t help but recall many previous downed walkers during his years of service to the enemy. Of course, he’s much happier about their destruction now, but he also knows from experience that they will just keep coming. As the Ewoks cluster around and hoist up a fallen comrade, he wonders if taking out a single walker is worth anything at all in the face of the Empire’s inexhaustible resources.

_One down, one fewer to go_ , he reminds himself, one of Zeb’s favorite optimistic refrains. He wonders how he’s doing. Before anxiety can sweep him away, he realizes that the din hasn’t ceased. In fact, more debris is raining down every second. Instincts of self-preservation forgotten in confusion, he looks up.

He sees the sky. It’s filled with fire and soot, but it’s there. He does not see the _Death Star II_. 

As embers rain from the heavens, he stares out into the smoky forest. _Antilles and Calrissian did it,_ he thinks wildly, followed immediately by, _I need to find Garazeb._ Unsteady, he raises himself to a crouch and propels himself in the direction of the shield generator bunker. At least, he thinks he’s going towards it. The dissolving skull of the _Death Star II_ in the sky is his only guide. Normally, his mind would cloud with worries– more like certainties– that he would never see his best friend again, but it is as if the recent explosion has also cleared his mind of everything but the desire to find him. Kallus can only scan the treeline for a beloved pair of Jun-lime-green eyes. He stumbles on, heedless of the falling rubble even as it dissipates.

Suddenly Kallus is rooted to the spot by the sight of a familiar tawny purple pelt. Their eyes lock across the clearing. Gaze unmoving, Zeb breaks into a run, leaping over clusters of transfixed, sky-gazing Ewoks. Kallus doesn’t dare to blink, as if one moment would remove the Lasat from his sight forever. In the space of two clicks, Zeb’s arms and scent crush him in a fierce hug, and he is nearly lifted off the ground. 

Zeb draws back and beams at him, and Kallus fears he is about to repeat the friendship gesture. Zeb seems to recall his reaction and stiffens, ears twitching with embarrassment.

“Kal, please” he says. His voice is desperate and pleading, even as the joyful whoops of Ewoks and rebel soldiers echo off the trees.

“Don’t make me say it,” Kallus croaks. Despair pools in his stomach. If he reveals the truth, he will sully a moment of triumph for the rebellion, and possibly their friendship. 

“I need to know.”

Kallus draws in a shaky breath. “May I kiss you?”

The pressure of Zeb’s arms vanishes as he doubles over. He’s laughing, Kallus realizes. His mouth contorts into a slanting frown as his ash-streaked face grows hot.

“Can you–!” Zeb shouts hoarsely, “Can you kiss me! After I went ahead and kissed you last night!”

“That wasn’t a kiss,” Kallus states, then immediately realizes it obviously had been. “Oh.”

“Oh my twice-blown DEATH Star, Kallus. Karabast! Kal, you fool!” Zeb roars. Despite himself, Kallus grins, and then they laugh together. After a few moments, Zeb recovers his breath.

“I may be an idiot,” he replies politely, “but I’ve definitely observed your kind exchanging pleasantries that way. How was I to know the difference?”

“I’ll tell you,” Zeb says. Kallus’s smile widens at the idea of receiving a lecture from Captain Orrelios here, on the recent battlefield. Nearly all the Ewoks have gone now, headed for the village where celebratory drums can already be heard beating. They are alone.

“It’s all about hand placement. This is for greetings and gratitude.” 

Zeb folds his arms behind his back, a stance that reminds Kallus of his Imperial days. He leans forward and chastely presses his cheek to Kallus’s.

“This next one,” he says, “Is for friendship and family.” 

He moves closer, placing his hands on Kallus’s upper arms. Kallus, always a quick study, places his own hands on Zeb’s biceps and receives the kiss.

“And anywhere on the face or head, Alexsandr,” Zeb murmurs, “is for love.” 

He slowly moves his right hand towards the back of Kallus’s head, as if afraid he will flinch away again. Kallus moves too quickly for him. He reaches out, cradles the Lasat’s chin in his hand, and brushes his right cheek along Zeb’s beard. Letting out a surprised gasp, Zeb returns the pressure.

Kallus inhales his scent, pressing his nose into Zeb’s beard. A faint tang of charred metal from the battle, yes, but nothing could conceal his natural musk. Even before that fateful night on Bahryn, Kallus could pick out Zeb’s unique alluvial scent anywhere. An upstart Jedi might take offense to it, but to Kallus its persistence was comforting. Even now, he swears there’s a sweet trace of meiloorun. Undoubtedly, Zeb’s scent will linger on him. This, he realizes, is the purpose of Lasat kissing.

After a few minutes, Kallus draws back to look at Zeb’s face. His eyes are closed, his fingers still meshed in Kallus’s hair.

“I love you, Garazeb,” he says, running his thumb along the stripe on Zeb’s cheekbone. The Lasat shudders. Their arms fall into a gentle but strong hug, Kallus’s arms draped over Zeb’s shoulders. He lets their foreheads press together, and there they remain for some time. 

“Karabast.”

* * *

Later, at the celebration, Kallus is riding high. He doesn’t think the Ewok’s local beverage is alcoholic, and he hasn’t drunk much of it, but the victorious air is intoxicating nevertheless. 

Zeb is dancing with Hera and Rex. Their body language exudes joy and relief, but Kallus thinks he can detect a trace of melancholy from the three of them. He knows how they all must feel the loss of Jarrus and Bridger. Even he feels it. Moments like these add weight to their sacrifices, but never fully alleviate the grief. They never will. All the same, he smiles as he hears Zeb’s infectious laugh from across the large platform. Despite the casualties, today is an indisputable victory for the Rebellion. And if the rumors are true– if Palpatine is dead– it may well mark the twilight of the Empire.

The last chorus of “ _yub nub!”_ dies away, replaced by a more pompous victory fanfare. To Kallus’s surprise, Zeb turns away after hugging his friends. The broad-shouldered Lasat skirts jubilant groupings of revelers, making his way towards him. Kallus returns his open smile. Upon reaching him at the edge of the platform, Zeb turns and hurls his wooden cup over the woven railing. Kallus watches as it sails into the darkness.

“Nasty fermented acorns!” he hoots. “Come on, let’s get out of here!” Kallus nods and follows him across one of the many intricately connected bridges of the Endor village. As they walk together, he touches his face, resting his hand on the place where Zeb had kissed him earlier. Not for the first time in the intervening hours– or even the past thirty minutes– he wonders what this means for their relationship. Their partnership. 

Whatever it is, it has to be good.

They arrive at a deserted platform. There are Ewok dwellings built here, but Kallus highly doubts they’re occupied at the moment, as the inhabitants will surely be busy with the celebration until dawn. Every sentient on the moon must be gathered back at the main platform. The only exception is a small light flickering through the trees from afar, like a funeral pyre. Zeb leans his weight against one of their walls, sighing happily. He’s staring at Kallus. Rather affectionately. Kallus is sure he must be grinning goofily, but he can think of nothing but the surge of butterflies in his stomach.

“Drink a lot, Zeb?” Kallus asks.

Zeb cocks his head, and he realizes that between the battle and the soul-thumping music, his hearing is probably shot. Kallus’s probably is, too, but Zeb must be worse off for his heightened Lasat senses. He repeats the question, louder.

“No way, those Ewoks are steely bastards when it comes to drink!” Zeb replies merrily, “Could put me under the table. Plus, it tasted like tauntaun shit.” Kallus is already smiling, so he smiles wider. His face aches; he hasn’t smiled this much in years. Or ever. He’s thinking about kissing again. The comforting pressure of Zeb’s jaw on his. The clawed fingers tangling his hair–

“I liked the human kissing, too,” Zeb says loudly. Kallus glances at him questioningly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know!” Zeb chuckles. He looks left and right, as if making sure there are no witnesses. Then his face breaks into a shy grin as he taps his own forehead meaningfully.

Kallus grabs the wooden railing to avoid plummeting to the jungle floor as laughter shakes his body.

“Garazeb Orrelios!” he wheezes, “In the clearing earlier– That wasn’t– that was just an embrace!” Zeb looks like a lost Loth-kitten, which only increases his laughter. 

“You have to have seen– what about Kanan and Hera?”

“You know, they were always so discreet,” Zeb protests, voice softening as it always does when discussing the late Jedi knight. “If I did see it, I didn’t know what it was.”

“Looks like it’s my turn to enlighten you,” Kallus chides. His laughter abates as Zeb pulls him close, a serious expression on his face.

“Please do.”

“Well, you see...,” Kallus pauses. Now that the moment is upon him, he’s not quite sure how to explain the mechanics of human kissing. The sensation of Zeb’s arms around him is making it difficult to think. He recalls Zeb’s earnest, tender explanation of the Lasat way. “Um. We simply... mash our lips together.”

Kallus thinks he sees an ear-twitch of amusement, but Zeb definitely seems willing to try it. As soon as the explanation falls from his lips, the Lasat covers them with his own. 

Kallus’s eyes shut and he tilts his head, exhaling on Zeb’s lower lip. He snakes his hand up and grabs Zeb by the collar of his jumpsuit, pulling him closer still. The Lasat hugs him tighter and experimentally parts his lips. Kallus revels in the contrast between the bushy bristles of Zeb’s beard and his velvety lips. He tastes sweat and something nutty– he has to admit the blasted acorn beverage doesn’t taste so bad. Given the circumstances. It tastes of home. Of hope.

Eventually, they break apart for air.

“Oh,” Zeb says.

“Oh,” Kallus agrees. He places his hand at the base of Zeb’s skull to make his intent clear in both cultures. 

And he kisses him again.


End file.
